


Half in the shadows, half burned in flames

by Caivallon



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, smut without plot, what happens at the ASG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: Between night and day. In this strange endless twilight between yesterday and tomorrow when everything is possible.They have played a game. A tempting and thrilling game.





	Half in the shadows, half burned in flames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OldLace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldLace/gifts), [DMajor11961](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DMajor11961/gifts).



> I wrote this one after I joked around with a friend about this ship, but the longer I joked about it the more I could see it. So I gave it a try. 
> 
> Thank you [ **Oldlace** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldLace/profile) and [ **Diana** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DC11961/pseuds/DC11961)
> 
> And for all the encouragement while I wrote this. I hope you like what I did. And again, thank you for the spontaneous beta job,[ **Bee** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou), I promise this is the last one ^.^ (at least for some time). 
> 
> Thank you to the mods of pucking rare for all the effort and work you put into the fest! 
> 
> Title is from Tamer’s amazing song  
> [ **Beautiful Crime** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSb2UJqrtd4) which fits beautifully for the story, I think. 
> 
> Please tell me if you think there are some tags missing. I tried my best with the smut parts, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing. 
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/aZgIIpY)

**Half in the shadows, half burned in flames**

When he wakes up the first time, it’s not even dawn. The light is bluish gray, streaming unfiltered and unhindered into the room with the moon creating a white rectangle on the foot of the huge king size bed, pouring down and spilling over the fluffy carpet like spilled milk. 

It’s bright and clear, no clouds at all. No skyscrapers or high rises, no orange hue from street lights. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, no sound at all. No cars and sirens. No one breathing beside him. 

It’s almost surreal. 

Maybe he’s dreaming. 

But he knows he’s not, even though he feels well-rested and wide awake after what could only have been about three or four hours of sleep. 

He thinks he’s alone. 

Doesn’t want to turn around. Doesn’t want to know if he’s right. Doesn’t want to find out if he cares. So he just slowly stretches his right hand, lets it wander over the rumpled sheets, the cool cushion. 

His fingertips don’t find what they are not looking for. 

So he is gone. 

Patrick _is_ alone.

He pulls his hand back under the blanket even though it's warm in the room. But he suddenly feels cold, has to press it against his bare stomach and curl himself around it as if he needed protection here in this hotel room, fifteen stories above the ground. The patch of moonlight slowly creeps over the bed, from his feet towards his knees while he stares out of the window until he can see the bright round shape—almost full, almost blinding to his dark adjusted eyes. Clear enough to detect the craters and mountains that dot the uneven surface. 

With an inaudible sigh Patrick pulls the blanket higher, turns his head into the cushion.

When did he leave? 

Patrick is not a heavy sleeper; so he must have been very careful, very quiet. Gathered his clothes and shoes and maybe even dressed in the hallway. A thought that drops heavy into his hollow stomach and rests there like an uncomfortable weight, makes him dig his fist deeper as if that could make it go away. 

It doesn't. 

And Patrick doesn't wish…doesn't think that he expected him to stay till morning. Because it wasn't about that. (About gentle caresses and honey kisses and sweet embraces, about falling asleep and waking up the same way). But somehow...he also didn’t expect to be alone when he woke up. 

He closes his eyes and starts to count his breaths, wills himself to inhale deeply, to fill his lungs and his stomach as much as he can—tries to fill up that strange emptiness inside so that it's less. 

There. 

Less grave. Less oppressing. 

__

It wasn't the first time they had met, of course not. They had seen each other various times before: during games and after. They had shaken hands and talked. They even had trained together and touched.

So Patrick should be used to the sight of contradictions that is Auston Matthews. The many different pictures and poses he's made of that shouldn't go together but they somehow do.

He took another sip of his drink and focused on the conversation. Or tried to. It wasn't the most fascinating topic ever and there was also the little smile that he had just caught from the corner of his eye before he turned away. A little smile he had seen before—many times, not because he had paid so much attention to Matthews before, but because it was such a typical gesture for him. Because it seemed so…right (and yet not) to see it on him. Almost shy, almost humble, almost embarrassed. 

Like a kid who got offered candy they had really, really wanted and still was too afraid of it being a trap, or if it was impolite to accept it. 

And Patrick knew…that Matthews probably was a lot of things but sweet and hesitant were none of them. He didn't need to be. Neither on nor off the ice. 

Sometimes he had wondered if it was fake—sometimes he still did. Which is a surprisingly far more interesting idea to focus on than the last season of Game of Thrones and even Emilia Clark's tits. Almost as interesting as looking back and finding out if he was still watching Patrick, if he was still wearing that same smile or if it had changed into that wider grin, the one that somehow always looked forced and fake, but that should fit him so much better. 

Almost as interesting as looking back and finding Matthews on his way through the room. Tall and built and kind of handsome. Watching Patrick. Seeing that familiar and expected grin falter back to the small smile when he noticed Patrick's gaze, when he stood in front of him. When Patrick was the one who had to look up to meet his eyes. Dark and soft. 

It was easy to fully turn around and abandon the ongoing debate about the awesomeness of the zombie dragon to fully take in the expression of Matthews’ face, the definitely awkward way he rubbed his neck, the little embarrassed huff—and everything that entailed. 

It was a lot. 

The stretch of the white fabric over his chest, the rolled up sleeves showing off inked skin and toned muscles underneath, the expanse of his shoulders and the stubble covering his strong jawline. 

"So…will you copy _my_ celly tomorrow for a chance?"

Everything about him was a lot to take in and Patrick didn't realize that he'd held his breath until his lungs protested and he had to inhale sharply. 

"Depends. You have to come up with something iconic on your own first." Maybe he needed too much time to reply, but if it was so Matthews didn't comment on it. Only laughed; with his head back and throat on full display—open and amused. 

Definitely not fake at all. (Patrick almost felt as if he had accomplished something. Something good.) 

"That a bet?" 

"We can make it one." 

"Then it's on."

They never agreed on a wager, didn't even seal it with a handshake—maybe to not draw attention to them from the other guys, maybe because they both knew they would be too competitive to back out.

Instead they made small talk; platitudes about the season, the All Star Game and Matthews' first captaincy, trash talking each other's result of the skills competition and then eventually the newest Netflix series and also Game of Thrones which was somehow much funnier than the discussion with the others before. 

Probably because no one wanted to ruin future jerk off sessions about Sansa's porcelain skin with memories of Burns' scraggly beard. 

Matthews' teeth looked very white against his skin whenever he flashed one of his smiles; all varieties from small to big, all so much nicer from up close, all different, all suddenly so fitting. Just like all his contradictions suddenly made more sense, were so damn endearing and thrilling. 

His youth—that was so easy to forget when Patrick watched him from afar or in photos, but so impossible to overlook after he finally met him in person. His cockiness and the barely veiled admiration when he looked at Patrick. His sass and adorable dorkiness when he talked about living in the frozen wasteland of Canada that became his home. 

That night Matthews became Auston and Patrick stopped wondering which of his smiles was fake.

__

That night Patrick dreamed of tattooed lines covering tanned forearms and how smooth they felt under his fingertips, of a sharp line that connected chin and jaw and how the short dark stubbles itched against his cheeks. Of huge hands clasping his ass and how hot it was to feel their strength pressing him close. 

He woke up twice. 

Both times sweaty and gross. One time on his stomach, rubbing against the mattress. 

Patrick was used to waking up during the night. But he wasn't used to waking up leaking and hard as a rock, having to jerk off because he knew he would never fall asleep again otherwise. 

__

He didn't think about either Daenery's tits or Sansa's porcelain skin. 

__

When Patrick wakes up again, it's not completely dark anymore: the sky is brighter with the moon still visible like a pale smudge just above the horizon. He doesn't know when he fell asleep again or how long he slept.

One hour at the most, probably. And this time he feels sore, tense from his cramped and curled up position. It's almost painful when he stretches his limbs, rearranges his arm and rolls to his back, swallowing a groan and then - not caring anymore because there's no one who could hear him - letting it out, sudden and almost loud in the quietness of the room. 

It sounds empty. 

He feels empty. Restless. Knows he won't be able to fall asleep again this morning. Thinks about the gym in the basement of the resort, with a treadmill that could distract him of pictures he doesn't want to see anymore, of sounds he shouldn't want to hear anymore, of the mingled taste of tequila, mint, cologne and skin. 

But he doesn't get up—too lazy, too drained. Instead he only turns over to the other side, where the remote must still be buried underneath the cushions from yesterday afternoon. 

And stops in the middle of rolling over. Stops breathing. 

Because Auston is still here. Lying on the far side of the bed, face almost hidden under strands of messy hair, free of styling products, mouth slightly open in a little smile that is even softer than the one Patrick noticed first. 

Suddenly his heart is beating fast. So fast—a staccato in his ears, almost urgent, almost painful, until he remembers to inhale again. To exhale again. 

Everything that was empty inside him before. Is not anymore. Is not full. But. At least not cold. 

Carefully, making as little sound as possible, he settles on his side, beds his head on his arm, stretches his legs. Listens for Auston's breath that is barely audible, so calm and shallow that Patrick isn't sure if he can really hear it or if he can only imagine it because of the rise and fall of the naked chest. 

There is lots of space between them, enough that he probably couldn't touch Auston even if he reached over. And he's glad for that, glad that he couldn't even if he wanted to. 

But he can watch, can stare at him now, because no one will catch him. 

Because Auston is beautiful like this: peaceful, young and vulnerable. Long limbs and big body spread out under the thin cotton sheet. Chest bare and skin paler than usual in the low gray twilight. 

_No one will ever know_. 

That Patrick lies here, collecting all the tiny differences between this Auston and the one he met before. The one everyone meets. 

The relaxed shape of his lower lip that was so plush against his own, the line of his nose that rubbed so sweetly against his own—this strange and affectionate gesture, so unexpected. Like the low chuckle when Patrick commented on it—the embarrassing redness that followed and made Patrick almost regret it. The dark shadow of lashes that Patrick hasn't noticed before but can't look away from now. 

His fingers itch to brush back the hair so that he can see them better. 

But he doesn't. 

Doesn't want to risk waking Auston up. Doesn't want to risk getting caught. 

Doesn't want to want it so _much_. 

__

It was chirping. Nothing more. Nothing Patrick didn't do with all the other players. Silly jokes, stupid bets. Easy breezy. 

Auston winking at him when they arrived at the arena on Sunday morning. Cap pulled low into his face, unshaved and looking a bit sleepy. Patrick could have missed it. Almost. 

But he didn't. Didn't miss the way that Auston looked so unlike the sharp and smartly dressed guy that walked the red carpet yesterday in that dark blue velvet suit that could even give Segs a run for his money. The way he looked younger and older at the same time—ruffled and relaxed, laughing and flirting into the camera fixed on him. 

// Such a charmer, Matthews. Hope you got her number. //

Patrick didn’t pay attention to gossip and rumors but even he knew that Auston was a player, a tease. 

// Don't need her number. Already got the only number I need this weekend. // 

It cost all of Patrick's willpower to not look up from the screen but then he caved and found Auston's gaze from the other end of the conference room. The cocky-shy smirk, white teeth flashing, strong skilled hands adjusting his cap so that it sat backwards before he lowered his eyes again: as if he was embarrassed about his boldness, about taking it too far. 

But maybe he only wanted to make sure that Patrick was looking. 

A _tease_. 

__

Nothing more. But a tease. 

A charmer. 

A flirt.

A thrill. 

When they met after the ASG final. 

Patrick was sweaty and gross: hair wet, lips dry, heart still excited from the game. From the game—not from finding Auston in the hallway, already showered and dressed in stupid ripped jeans, a soft cotton shirt that shouldn't do him any favors (but actually did) and a hoodie that looked so comfortable that Patrick was actually jealous. With his bag between his feet and his hair slicked back, only a few strands playfully and artfully arranged around his face, Matthews looked like the perfect picture of a hipster Instagram model. 

Only that Patrick could feel the grin slipping onto his face while he tried to not slow down, to not notice him, to not hope that Auston was here for him. But he knew, and when Auston looked up from his phone it was enough for Patrick to slow down and turn his walk into a more casual and cocky stroll. More posing, more showing off. Teasing and confident. 

Just like his voice. 

"Losing suits you." 

"Everything suits me." If Auston was annoyed or pissed it didn't show, except maybe for the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth that he passed off as a smirk he put on for Patrick. Or maybe he really didn't care. 

"I had to come up with my own celly, _again_.” Patrick clicked his tongue. "At least I'm creative." 

"And that's all you came up with? Weak, man." 

"Hey, give an old man some rest. Unlike someone else, I played two games." Not to rub salt into a wound that probably wasn't one, only to see the twitching again. 

"That's why you're so out of breath?" 

"Well, it's definitely not from seeing you." 

Auston laughed. A nice one; open and winning without even trying. He pushed himself from the wall and was suddenly close. _Closer_. Not close enough that Patrick had to take a step back, but right into his personal space. 

He didn't budge, only rocked slightly back and forth on his feet, licked his lips because he also could play this game. Was really good at it even. Something he should probably prove to Matthews—that he wasn't the only flirt here. That Patrick had his own tricks and moves that could make everyone breathless. 

He licked his lips again and brushed his hair back. Leaned in a bit. As if he wanted to see that nice laugh better, as if he wanted to inhale Auston's spicy and most likely expensive cologne. 

(He wanted to.)

"You still got some strength left for later?" 

"Don't worry about that." 

"I wasn't the one calling you old." 

When he looked down along Patrick's body it was slow and not subtle at all—not caring that someone could see it, see them out here in the hallway, standing way too close. It was thorough and appreciating. Eyes wandering over Patrick’s chest and arms, taking in the definition and build of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders and the smaller curve of his waist and hips before they dropped down to his thighs and ankles, leaving goosebumps and a shiver of warmth behind that ran through Patrick's body and tingled in his spine and increased his heartbeat again. 

The way Auston's eyes widened and his pupils dilated was one of the most satisfying things of this whole weekend, better than the texts they had exchanged this morning, even better than the little chat the night before. 

But not as good as the blush on his cheekbones as Patrick laughed and interrupted his stare. His admiration. 

Auston meant him to notice, and yet his caught and slightly embarrassed reaction was real and almost adorable. Definitely endearing. 

Patrick stepped back. 

"Sweet-talking doesn't work with me. Try harder."

"I don't need to sweet-talk you, or anyone else." 

"Aww, such big words. Hope you don't have to swallow them, again." Patrick didn't bother to hide his amusement. Didn't have to because Auston could take it, could take it even if this whole weekend wasn't just a stupid PR joke. "Alright, gotta shower, man, see you later."

His legs felt funny and his knees wobbly. And he was afraid that had nothing to do with the fact that he came fresh from the ice. 

__

// Just realized that I need one more important number on this weekend.//

Patrick huffed at his phone, felt Auston's eyes on him again: warm, waiting and so fucking exciting. Sweet and hot and thick like honey; tempting him to look up and meet the dark gaze across the room. 

With a smirk he quickly sent a text with his room number. But he never looked up. Never gave in.

It was a game. A different one than what they had played before, yet still…a game.

And Patrick could play it, too. 

Was good at it, too. 

A tease. 

A flirt. 

A thrill. 

__

_It was a game_. 

Even if Patrick didn’t know what Auston got out of it. 

What Auston saw in him. 

Was it only the idea of hooking up with one of his hockey heroes or was it Patrick himself? Auston had never been shy or reluctant in praising his hockey skills, naming him among his idols and favorite players (he had read the interviews, had realized it last year during the summer training camp). But he had also noticed the way Auston observed him the last two days, had felt the trail of eyes up and down his body, the barely hidden admiration of his physical appearance, the open and honest interest that was free from any agenda whenever they talked.

Patrick couldn’t figure him out—sometimes he thought he got a glimpse of Auston’s intentions, of his motives, but the next moment, with the next glance that made him blush and avert his eyes...that flicker was gone and Patrick was clueless once more. 

Did it matter? It shouldn’t. 

Because it was good. It was fun. 

Because it wouldn’t change anything. 

__

Auston showed up at his door two hours after dinner, half an hour after Patrick had excused himself from the get together at the hotel bar, too sober from one beer and one gin tonic that he had made last for the whole evening. Pleasantly drunk from tracing Matthews across the room, watching him sip rich golden tequila as if it was scotch while he laughed with Tavares or someone else. While he smiled at what was probably Fleury's kids on his phone. Rolled his eyes in a mix of amusement and annoyance at whatever Eichs was talking about. 

He looked good. Of course he did. Patrick couldn't recall one time when he didn't. Not on this weekend and not in general. And even though he never cared much about his own appearance - not like Tyler, not even like Jonny - he could appreciate it. Could understand it. Matthews made millions, he was a superstar (no matter his lacking points this season), and he was hot. Toronto's own personal hockey saviour. The holy trinity of Matthews, Marner and Tavares. Never one who had to fight tooth and nails to make it to the big show like Patrick had. He came, saw and conquered. 

At least that was the Auston Matthews Patrick observed that night when he wasn't aware of Patrick's gaze on him. 

Because the second he looked up and met his eyes something changed: something shifted—softened and hardened at the same time. Hardened because this was their own personal game and he wanted to win (whatever that meant). Softened because he was young and maybe not really insecure, but still overwhelmed because he couldn't believe that he was living his dream. He may not have had to fight for the NHL like Patrick had, never had been too small, too light…But Auston had to fight for hockey. Fighting his Mexican background, growing up in a city where hockey was laughed at or meaningless at the best. Alienated from his friends who couldn't understand his love for the game, who had chosen baseball or football. 

Maybe not many people got that when they looked at Auston—they saw the flamboyant clothes and accessories, the cockiness, the sass…they couldn't understand the softness, the awkwardness. They only found it endearing, or fake. 

But Patrick did. 

And he would never be able to unsee it. Not after that day. 

It was a game. 

A game of hide and seek, of play tag and don't blink. 

Both of them watching each other from across the room. Smirking or smiling when they caught each other. Or just lowering their eyes, turning the focus to their drinks, phones or someone else. Licking lips or biting the soft inside of the cheek when no one interrupted them, when they just. Could. Look. Their. Fill. 

Notice all the little things. 

Like Auston's bare ankles above those ridiculous Gucci loafers—a small stretch of skin that was pale and looked so smooth. The beginning of curls in his nape, artfully styled to not look styled at all, even when Patrick was sure Auston had spent more time on them than he did on his whole outfit. The little crease on his Cupid's bow that was almost hidden under the groomed beginnings of his beard. But Patrick knew it was there; he had seen him clean shaved enough to notice it: a dent, a nick, a scar (maybe the result of a stick to his face when he had been very young that some resident hadn't treated well enough to heal properly). 

To Patrick it was endlessly fascinating and tempting and he couldn't wait to touch it, to slide his fingertips over it and find out if it felt hard and foreign or if Auston smiled and wasn't even aware of this little feature that made his face so special. 

__

He probably was; because he protected this smile so much. Sometimes with the charming wide grin or with a low snapback or the fast growing beard. Because there weren't a lot of things Auston Matthews wasn't aware of about himself. 

But Patrick couldn't wait to find out.

__

It was the first thing he got to taste when Auston finally showed up at his doorstep. Almost completely sober again, still dressed up from the dinner before in that pair of ripped jeans and a jacket that probably cost more than all the suits Patrick possessed when he was at that age. 

It was the second thing he noticed, when he opened the door. After the small smile, the tousled strands of hair and the dark, dark eyes that looked way softer than he had ever expected. 

It was the third thing he thought about after he allowed Auston in. Taller, bigger, warmer than anyone else Patrick had ever been with. After Auston crowded him against the door as soon as it had closed behind him. After he pressed his lips against Patrick's and licked, nicked, bit down playfully and teasingly on his bottom lip. Hands in Patrick's hair, he stepped right between his legs and filled the space between them that had never ever felt empty before. 

Never ever before had he felt like this, surrounded and small and so much in control. Never ever had he been kissed like this—with so much strength and so much enthusiasm and so much hesitation. As if he was precious, as if Auston couldn't believe that he was really kissing him. 

He was a good kisser, more selfless and considerate than Patrick would have expected. Allowing him to breathe and gather his wits after the first feverish minute. Sliding the right hand down along his body, over his sides, then underneath his shirt, caressing Patrick's ribcage with almost feathery touches while his other hand settled right underneath his ass, cupping it, lifting his leg so that he could fit his body better between Patrick's legs, could press their bodies closer together—spreading his hips almost painfully wide. Almost too much. 

The borderline between almost too much and definitely not enough. 

It got even better when he dropped the other hand to Patrick's ass, too, when he actually lifted Patrick and pushed him against the wood of the door. With nothing that betrayed the exertion but a little exhale of breath that felt hot against his lips, that Patrick drank so greedily, swallowed it before he crushed their mouths together again, hands going up to Auston's hair, pulling him in, making it clear what he wanted. Needed. 

More kisses, more tongue and teeth. More of the taste that reminded him of sticky summer days at the pool, of sweaty nights in a club with too much tequila and too little oxygen. 

The dark strands felt smooth and cool between his fingers, while Auston's body was the opposite; hard and strong, huge and hot. Patrick couldn't stop himself from rubbing against his stomach even if he wanted to. He gasped into the kiss. Loud. Loud enough to hear it. Loud enough for Auston to open his eyes and look at him, look right at him, with pupils so big that they almost extinguished all the brown. 

Then he adjusted his grip so that Patrick was even higher, legs slung around his waist, cock trapped between them, pressed against Auston's stomach. 

" _Fuck_." 

Patrick didn't even know who said it—maybe both of them. Didn't care, just started to move his hips, to work himself up and down to get himself hard while Auston's head fell to his shoulder, hiding his expression from him as he started to lick over Patrick's throat and neck, nose poking into the soft flesh under Patrick's ear. It was wet; from sweat and spit and so so good. 

There was nothing fancy about their movements, just frantic fast thrusts and bites, hoarse groans that got Patrick fully hard so much faster than he would have liked, That maybe would have been embarrassing if this wasn't about that, if it didn't feel that good. 

If he were alone in this.

But he wasn't. Could feel the bulge of Auston's dick sliding between his cheeks, radiating heat even with too many layers of fabric between them. It was mind blowing that he could do that with nothing but a few kisses and some dry humping and he laughed, yanked Auston's head up with a sharp tug so that he could lean down and kiss him again, reveling in the feeling of being taller, of being the one dictating their pace. 

When they finally had to stop for air Patrick's hands were around Auston's face, thumb brushing over the stubbled cheeks, admiring the tiny freckles he never noticed before, the shape of his mouth and the darkness of his lashes. 

"As hot as this is...you should put me down." 

The slow blink, as if it took him a moment to come to his senses. 

(Thrilling.) 

"So that we can do something about the clothing situation," Patrick clarified. "Because we're wearing way too many in my opinion." 

' _And I need to see you naked_.' 

He didn't say it, but maybe Auston heard it. Or maybe he had the same idea regarding how fast he let Patrick down, not dropping him, simply untangling Patrick's thighs from around his back and lowering him, hands never leaving his sides until he was sure that Patrick's legs wouldn't give out. 

It was such a thoughtful and sweet gesture that Patrick had to lower his gaze, bite his lips to not comment on it and betray that he had noticed it, that he absolutely appreciated it. But then he had to look up again because Auston's hands were on his chest, quickly unbuttoning his shirt with the same confident deftness he did everything. 

"Wanted to do that since forever." 

He lied. Probably. But Patrick didn't call him out on it—it wasn't important. Not right now and not at all. Didn't, because right now he could understand it. It felt like ages since that first time he thought about it, even when it had just been yesterday. But suddenly it was the only thing on his mind. Getting Auston out of that stupid white shirt and getting his hands all over the tanned skin that glistened in the warm light from the bedside table, sweaty because he lifted Patrick and rubbed up against him while holding his weight. 

"Jesus," he cursed, fingers ripping impatiently on the little buttons, considering for a few moments to just…really tear the shirt apart. But then he managed and folded it back, dropped forward to help Auston yank away his own. Dropped forward to bring his mouth to the stupid lines of ink that followed his collarbones. No time to read the letters, no time to mock him for this. Just…yeah. He tasted good, even better than he smelled. 

Patrick bit down, sharp and sweet before he licked the skin to make up for the pain, to focus while Auston's fingers worked on his pants—so good, so fast. So used to doing that while Patrick did nothing, nothing but lean against him, trusting him to take Patrick's weight, to not stop while Patrick slide his hands into his dark pants. To wait until the cooler air of the room hit his bare skin and made him shiver. 

Suddenly naked, suddenly so very aware of the situation. 

Suddenly leaning back against the door, panting fast and hard while he could do nothing but stare as Auston went to his knees in front of him. 

All fear, all hesitation was gone, vanished into thin air like his coherent thinking as Auston took him into his mouth. 

Patrick shouted. 

Too loud, too needy. 

Too obvious. 

But not even the satisfied smirk on Auston's face while he looked up at him was enough to take it back, to play it cool. 

It was just… 

Never had he expected this; Auston doing this, not only doing this, but being really really fucking amazing at it. There was no moment of delay, no flicker of insecurity. He just leaned in and took him in his mouth, swallowed him deep and hot. Bobbed his head a few times, as if he wanted to learn and memorize Patrick's size, wanted to get accustomed with it, with the feeling and the taste, until he released him a bit, almost allowed him to slip out, only to stop himself in the last second and start to suck on the head. Small and sweet licks, swirling his tongue around, dipping it into the slit and tasting Patrick. 

When Patrick's fingers grabbed his head he looked up, gave him a little smile—that same fucking shy smile that brought them here in the first place. Nodded, told him silently that he didn't mind being held, didn't mind Patrick holding him in place while he started to move. 

Everything was wet as Auston opened so beautifully around him. Lips stretched around his dick, wet and red. 

It was maybe one of the hottest things he'd ever seen. Auston looking up at him, down on his knees. For him. Sucking Patrick's dick as if he dreamed about it for years, as if there was nothing he'd rather do. While Patrick's fingers yanked on his hair, fisted into the dark strands to not make any too loud noises. Until it was too much, until he knew he would have to pull him back because he was about to come. 

"Auston…I—" 

But Auston didn't pull off, didn't stop, only blinked up at him, tears clinging to his lashes and cheeks covered with a furious red blush. 

Patrick did _that_. Patrick made him look like that. 

So messy and wrecked and soft. 

He came with a sharp gasp, head falling back and crashing hard into the door with a loud wooden bang that indicated that it was maybe painful, but Patrick didn't even register it. 

Not when he could look at the picture he created. When he could see Auston licking come from his lips, gathering the last spilled drops as if…he liked their taste. As if he wanted to do that since forever. 

It had only been a bit more than 24 hours but it felt like fucking forever. 

It had only been about 4-5 minutes, and Patrick should feel embarrassed for not lasting longer. But show him one person who would have, with Auston Matthews on his knees for them, sucking and swallowing their dick with his tousled hair and pretty mouth and soft soft brown eyes.

Patrick slid down along the door and gathered Auston's face into his hands, Fingertips on his jaw, thumbs wiping away the last drops that he didn't get, white and sticky and hot. Theoretically gross. And yet nothing like that when Auston grabbed his wrist and traced the last proof that they really did this. That Patrick came in his mouth. 

He moaned. Exhaled. 

Sighed. 

Waited for his lungs to fill up with oxygen and his brain to reboot. Knees brushing each others’, hands still curled together. Smiles blissed out and exhausted. 

__

Patrick didn't mean to. He really didn't. 

Neither flirting with Auston, nor agreeing to this stupid not-bet. Nor falling to bed with him after something that shouldn't have been one of the most exciting one-night-stands ever. 

__

And now. 

Now he's lying in the dark that is not night anymore but not daylight yet. 

Lying in bed next to Auston who is still asleep. Who has fallen asleep next to him, underneath him because they were both too exhausted. (Who shoved Patrick off him half an hour later, leaving him cold and dreamless while he didn't even seem to even notice.) 

Who is still sleeping while Patrick is awake again and staring at him. 

Trailing the lines of his face with his eyes. The arch of his eyebrows, his nose and the lines of his jawbone and those stupidly pretty lips that felt so good when they kissed. 

He knows he shouldn't. But there is not much else to look at and even if it was Auston would still be the only one he wanted to watch. 

So peaceful and quiet. So trusting and so so different.

Patrick shifts closer, as soundless as he can. Can't help it, can't stop himself. Not when Auston looks so…cozy. So big and strong. As if he's providing all the warmth that Patrick needs to heat his flesh and his bones. Even when he's underneath the blanket while Auston is only half covered by the thin cotton sheet so that Patrick can perfectly see the outlines of thighs and ass and the arch of his spine. So that Patrick can see the bare expanse of his back; the roundness of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms and all the smooth skin that is surrounding them.

His fingers itch and he wants to touch him again: to brush the strands of hair out of Auston's face so that he can see the dark lashes, can admire the little crease over his lips better. 

He doesn't. But it takes a lot of willpower. 

Patrick curls his hand into a fist and pulls it against his chest. Rests his head on his upper arm. Tries to count, tries to think of ways that could get him back to sleep when he notices a frown creeping into Auston's face as if he felt Patrick’s gaze on him. Then he blinks, curls his mouth unwillingly, fighting consciousness before he finally opens his eyes and finds Patrick’s. 

Blinks again. 

Patrick stops, freezes. _Caught_. 

"Do you ever sleep?"

His voice is hoarse and dry. Sounds almost painful to use. And reminds Patrick of what he's done before they ended up here. How he sucked Patrick's dick, how they kissed until their tongues were aching and their lips were bitten and their bodies were dotted with hickeys. 

"You've been tossing and turning for ages."

It doesn't sound annoyed. Only sleepy. The good kind of sleepy. Like when you wake up from a dream you don't want to leave behind and escape from. _A dream you want to return to_. 

"Sorry." Patrick offers, but he's not sure if he even means it and he assumes that Auston can tell because the frown deepens and he brushes the hair out of his face. Pushes himself up before shifting closer. _Closer_. Until he can touch Patrick and bring his hand to his upper arm. Leaving a path of warmth from Patrick's shoulder to his elbow, and further down to where Patrick’s fist is curled in front of his stomach. Tips his index on each of Patrick's knuckles. 

"Everything okay?" 

Auston sounds serious. Seriously interested and concerned. Which could explain the frown. The hesitation in his eyes. The disappearance of his smile. 

"Yeah, sure. Not a heavy sleeper." Patrick explains and it's no lie. Even if it's not the full truth. 

"Probably ‘cause you think too much."

"Not everybody can be as careless as you." 

Auston blinks again, smirks. 

"I think I took pretty good care of you last night." 

And then he's dragging himself over to Patrick's side of the bed, eliminates the distance between them completely. Is right there in Patrick's space: strong and confident and still so…innocent. Still a boy, barely out of his teenage years. Not the Auston Matthews that shows up on red carpets wearing fancy suits, or the Auston Matthews that posts shirtless pics on Instagram. 

The Auston Matthews who Patrick met during summer training camp and who sat quietly in the last row and only talked occasionally. The Auston Matthews who came up to him two nights before with a shy smile and soft eyes. 

Auston. Or 'Matts', even if Patrick will never call him that. Because they are not friends. They have never been and probably never will be. They made it impossible last night. 

Patrick swallows. Inhales. Closes his eyes. 

"You did."

He doesn't feel weak, doesn't feel insecure. But he's glad that he's lying with his back to the window, that his face is hidden in the shadows and not illuminated like Auston's. 

"I could do that again." 

Of course, he would say that. Of course, it would lead to that. 

"You should."

Of course, Patrick would take him up on that. 

He only opens his eyes again when he feels a sweet butterfly touch on his lids, tickling his lashes and swiping over the soft skin underneath his eyes. 

Opens his eyes just in time to see Auston leaning in to kiss him. 

__

Not a kiss like the evening before. 

Barely a _kiss_. Nothing but a slide of lips over his own. 

__

It's so easy to roll onto his back and let Auston climb on top of him. Still heavy from sleep and dreams, warm and mellow when he brushes their noses together before trailing the tip over Patrick's cheekbones and temporals. 

His arms are around Patrick's upper body, his thighs around Patrick's hips. He's pushing himself up just enough to not crush him, but still not enough to not press all the air out of Patrick's lungs. Or maybe that's just his imagination, just like everything about Auston takes his breath away. 

Just like everything about Auston Matthews makes him want to stop thinking at all. 

Makes Patrick bring his arm around him and yank at him so that Auston finally understands, finally stops teasing him and…just lets go and lowers himself until they are skin on skin so that Patrick can press his nose into the soft spot under his ear and inhale the scent that lingers there: the last remaining traces of cologne, mixed with sharp salty sweat, with warm dreams. So that Patrick can slide his lips over the hinge of Auston's jaw, taste him again: the sunshine, the softness, the sleepiness. 

Patrick spreads his legs, allows Auston to slide between them and press himself closer. Hot and strong and so so young.

And it's as good as the night before. Maybe even better. Maybe. _Definitely_. Because second times are always better than first times. (Even though it felt more than only one time, one endlessly long stretch of touching, thrusting and kissing.)

Because everything becomes better when you do it with a person you… ~~Care for~~ like. 

When you do it with someone you can trust. 

__

It's not day yet, and not dark anymore. It's not tomorrow and not yesterday. 

It's nothing—and everything. That strange endless twilight between yesterday and tomorrow when everything is possible. 

A time beyond time. 

A time they both can pretend that doesn't exist when they wake up again later, when they leave the room in the bright light of the day.

Maybe they both know that. Maybe they both need that, because Auston is always so damn close. Over him, surrounding him. Breathing him and holding him; legs entangled, arms around his face or back, moving against him very slow, very sensual. ~~Almost romantic~~. _Intimate_.

Because Auston touches him just like Patrick wants to be touched: a mix between greedy and possessive and soft and so very careful that he wants nothing more than shut his eyes and let himself be…held. 

It's not like the night before when they stumbled to the bed and Patrick tore off Auston's pants and brushed the open shirt from his shoulders before he pushed him down; climbed on top of him. When they were both too elated and excited about finally being naked together—skin on skin. Mouth on mouth. Licking, biting and panting frantically. Dicks brushing against each other, hips thrusting, grinding. Wet from spit and precome and lotion that they grabbed from Patrick's nightstand. It was so messy and so so very good that it took Patrick about five minutes to get hard again. With Auston underneath him; all tanned skin and sturdy upper body, looking up at him with those hazy eyes, overwhelmed and still so determined. Their hands clasped together, tight and almost bone crushing when Patrick sat up and used his thighs and hips and lower body to ride Auston, to feel his erection brush against his, against his balls and taint and over his hole. 

He still remembers the shiver that ran through both of their bodies when the tip of Auston’s cock caught on his rim, the spark of pleasure that was so different than before, the thrill of knowing that they both could just…they could just do _that_. The feverish temptation to do it and the numbing fear of really doing it. Of taking it one step further. 

A step they could never come back from unblemished. 

A fear that made Patrick lean forward again, lie on top of Auston so it was only their dicks that brushed each other. Painfully hard, but so much less dangerous. Chasing relief without giving up too much. 

But now…it's so different. 

Now there is no light to see—to be seen. 

There is only bluish gray twilight and their noses brushing each other’s. 

There is Auston's body on top of him that feels so different than before when he was the one lying underneath Patrick. Almost too much, but also not even close enough. Breathtaking and suffocating even when he still refuses to put his full weight on Patrick. Face buried in Patrick’s neck, tickling and nosing the spot behind his ear, the skin below his eyes. Hands in Patrick's curls, body moving slowly and languidly. 

As if it's a dream. As if Patrick never woke up. 

As if he wants to make sure that Patrick could pass it off as a dream. 

(If Patrick wanted. If Patrick wanted this to be not real.)

There is some coherent thought that tells him to stop, to pull away and roll around, to keep his back to Auston. Only offer his ass and thighs to rub off against, to slide his dick into the tight gap between his legs. So that they both can't see their faces, can't look into each other's eyes. 

But he doesn't. 

Doesn't want at all. 

He wants to look up and slide his hands into Auston's hair, cool and silky. Wants to pull his head up so that they can kiss again. Like they did the evening before. Deep and thorough kisses. He wants to spread his legs, so that Auston can fit himself between them, open them further with his wide hips and thighs so that he can feel the reminder of pain whenever he takes a step tomorrow, that he can feel Auston's body on top of him and pressing him down, when he packs up his stuff and walks down the hallway to the taxi. And that he can taste the mint of the gum they shared before falling asleep, the beeswax of chapstick, the taste of Auston that is hidden underneath all these distractions when he sits in the plane that would bring him back to Chicago and sips sad Bloody Marys. 

He wants all these things and he shouldn't. But Patrick has always been good in wanting things he shouldn't or couldn't. 

Right now it is real. Realer than he could've ever imagined and ever imaged wanting. 

He will take it.

He will not close his eyes. 

It's the easiest thing he has ever done. 

It's so much easier than averting his eyes the night before. 

__

Afterwards they lie in the dark. 

Between night and day. In this strange endless twilight between yesterday and tomorrow when everything is possible. 

They have played a game. A tempting and thrilling game. 

But now it's on hold. And whatever they say…whatever they do. Whatever they feel. 

_It doesn't count_. 

__

This time they don't fall asleep again afterward. Or at least Patrick doesn't. 

Instead he rolls to his side and stares out of the window. Again. 

But this time Auston is curled around him: tall and strong and so warm. Suffocating and almost oppressing. Too much. Or not too much, but it could have been too much. If it weren't Auston, if it wasn't something Patrick waited for. 

He can't tell if Auston is asleep or not—his breathing never changes after it has calmed down, with his arm and thigh draped over Patrick; loose and heavy; protecting him when he doesn't even need protection while he watches the sky changing colours. 

First into a lighter blue, then green, then orange. 

Watches the moon become more pale and the shadows more soft.

__

Patrick has barely slept in the last 24 hours; he should feel tired and exhausted, cranky and off kilter. But he can't remember having felt better rested in weeks. 

Calm. 

Happy. Almost.

He shivers. Takes Auston's hand and pulls it all around him, tries to gauge if Auston is still awake or sleeping, listening to his weird, almost soundless breathing. Isn't even sure if he can really hear it or if he's only counting the up and down of Auston's chest against his spine. 

"I'm awake. Been for a while." 

"Didn't take you for an early bird."

"I'm full of surprises." 

Patrick decides to not comment on it. Doesn't know how to, without revealing something he's not ready for. 

"You could've moved if you were too hot." 

But he's not sure if he's ready for the reply this could get him. 

"Well…I was comfortable. And you looked cold. Why didn't you turn the air con higher?" 

"Didn't think about it. Was too busy thinking." He laughs about the wordplay, the ridiculousness. The actual truth in his words. 

"You really think too much." 

Auston laughs; a breathy huff before it turns into a soft chuckle and he pushes himself up behind Patrick, takes the blanket and the sheet with him so that Patrick is hit with a draft of cooler air. But before he can grumble and complain Auston hands him the remote and shifts so that he's more upright, pulls Patrick closer until the only thing he can feel is warm skin while he fiddles with the setting of the air con. 

"Are you tired?" 

Patrick is, but he’s also not and so he shakes his head—wants to roll over and put his head on Auston's chest. It was a good place to fall asleep yesterday, even when he's not tired enough to fall back asleep. 

It's a strange and unexpected thing to wish for and he's neither sure where it comes from nor if he's allowed to. 

But then Auston's fingers slide into his hair, tousling it and softly scratching over his scalp and Patrick stops hesitating and just. Does it. 

It's good. It's better. More comfortable and Auston doesn't look as if he minds or thinks it’s weird. The hand continues playing with Patrick's curls and his gaze is soft. Despite his earlier words he looks sleepy: there are creases from the cushion on his cheek and his eyebrows are wrinkled and messy like his hair. 

Patrick relaxes and stretches alongside Auston's body, so that there's no space between them anymore and he can put his hand and head on Auston's chest, synchronizing his breathing with the steady heartbeat, fingertips drawing lazy swirls on the hairless skin. 

He isn't even remotely surprised that Auston waxes, would be disappointed if he didn't, but he's still surprised about the awkward laugh and the blush that creeps down Auston’s neck when Patrick comments on it. How this reaction hits him like a punch into his stomach. 

So endearing; he almost wants to avert his eyes. 

"Trust me, you don't want to see me when I don't." 

They both laugh. Auston because he's still embarrassed and probably because he imagines Patrick imagining it. Patrick because he is imagining it (of course) but mostly because Auston can laugh about himself and his own ridiculous vanity and that is always something Patrick appreciates. 

And then he stops laughing at all when Auston's left hand suddenly cups his face and brushes his thumb over Patrick’s lower lip. Without hesitation, with a confidence and naturalness that Patrick has to swallow; heart so fast and loud in his chest that it's impossible for Auston to not feel it. 

"I really like it when you laugh. I really really do."

It's honest and huge and he just puts it out there as if it's nothing. 

As if it _means_ nothing. 

For two or three or twenty seconds the words hang in the air, invisible but soft - like the touch against his lips - and neither of them moves, speaks or jokes. Neither does anything to cut the silence between them that is neither awkward nor tense. It just lingers between them—when they are still so close that nothing else fits between them. 

"Want me to leave, so that you can grab some more sleep?"

It’s the last thing Patrick expected (how stupid of him) and he wants to blink, wants to shut his eyes. Wants the words to not feel like a blow. 

He does neither. 

Shrugs. (It's not hard because it means nothing.) 

"I'm comfortable." 

It sounds as nonchalant as he intended. Because Auston just smiles; that small kid-like smile that he gets when he's happy while he slides down a bit, arms still around Patrick as if he didn't ask that question. 

As if he's relieved about Patrick's answer. 

__

But the twilight vanishes and turns into a beautiful golden daylight. A morning that makes them both press closer for a few moments before they slowly start to untangle their limbs. 

Before they part for real. 

__

_Their game is not on hold anymore. They have to pick it up again and eventually they have to end it_. 

__

Later, after they have showered and Auston has put on the wrinkled pants and shirt again…after they have said goodbye and Auston has closed the door behind him…when Patrick is already on the plane and stares at the seat in front of him he realizes for the first time that they haven't really kissed. Not after those first, too urgent, too hot and too good kisses in the beginning that he can still remember too well. 

His fingers play with the little napkin, his mouth tastes of tomato juice and pepper, but the second he closes his eyes he can see Auston's smile and his body, hear his voice and feel his lips and tongue and teeth. 

They haven't kissed anymore, only traded strangely cute Eskimo kisses that made his heart flutter. That somehow seemed so much more intimate. So much better and so much more fitting for everything they had. 

And everything they hadn't. 

They still make him smile. 

They still make his heart flutter. 

__

End. 

Thank you for reading.


End file.
